


Marked

by grim_lupine



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Engagement, Established Relationship, Jewelry, M/M, Possessive Behavior
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-31
Updated: 2010-05-31
Packaged: 2017-10-22 18:16:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/241086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grim_lupine/pseuds/grim_lupine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Blackwood purchases something with the sole purpose of seeing it on Coward’s body, he considers the possible folly of the precedent this will set—it is one thing for the lords he rules to see that Coward has a special place by Blackwood’s side, and quite another to make it so blatant that he is greatly favored.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Marked

-

\--

The first time Blackwood purchases something with the sole purpose of seeing it on Coward’s body, he considers the possible folly of the precedent this will set—it is one thing for the lords he rules to see that Coward has a special place by Blackwood’s side, and quite another to make it so blatant that he is greatly favored. The one rule he has always held to is that he must never make his weaknesses known, and to display the extent to which Coward has worked his way into Blackwood’s life would be doing just that.

If Blackwood had his way, even Coward would not know the effect he has had upon him; unwillingly he has become enthralled by this strange man, so brilliant and wicked behind his falsely-angelic exterior. Coward does know, though. He very politely allows Blackwood to retain the fiction that what they have together is a matter of convenience, nothing more; but his private smiles, so devoid of the fear Blackwood has become used to, speak volumes.

(On the day of Blackwood’s formal coronation, when the ceremonies were over, it was just the two of them in Blackwood’s room, standing out on the balcony with London spread below them. Coward was bright-eyed, cheeks flushed hectically with delirium; he threw one arm out, gesturing toward the land they could see so clearly from where they stood, the land that was _Blackwood’s_ now, and said, “I gave this to you.” His eyes dared Blackwood to disagree, and Blackwood—face impassive, hands clasped over his staff as he watched Coward watch him with the same look of enthrallment he’d worn since the day they had met—could not.

Through it all, through their long and winding path to raise England—and the world—to the greatness he had always known they could reach, only Coward had seen Blackwood for who he truly was and yet followed him with more fervency than any of the brainless acolytes surrounding him. Blackwood had never had any trouble with his self-esteem, but even if he _had_ , he could have taken over the country on the strength of the sheer faith Coward poured into him alone.

So when Coward said again, quieter this time, but still so sure of himself, “I _gave_ this to you,” Blackwood answered him with lips and tongue and teeth alone, kissed him sharply as Coward laughed delightedly into his mouth and fell into his hold.

Coward knew then, and knows now, that what they have is anything but a matter of convenience; to try and keep that from him now would be fruitless at best, and Blackwood is too intelligent to try.)

In the end, what pushes Blackwood to buy the silver chain is a mixture of his possessiveness—even from his childhood days, Blackwood has had a highly developed sense of what is _his_ , and if nothing else, this gift should make it inescapably clear that Coward belongs to _Blackwood_ —and the realization that as the newly-ordained ruler of England (the world will be soon to follow), he has no need to abide by rules imposed by anyone other than himself.

Coward is as eager as the best of whores to fall into Blackwood’s bed; his mind is sharp enough to keep up with Blackwood’s twisting plans for the world; above all, his loyalty to Blackwood is breathtaking in its intensity.

When Blackwood draws the chain from his pocket and clasps it around Coward’s throat from behind, he can feel Coward’s breath hitch slightly, his pulse quickening under Blackwood’s fingers. The chain is thick silver, simple in its design, but shining so brightly that it cannot be missed by anyone.

Coward opens his mouth to speak, but instead bows his head so that Blackwood can close the clasp of the chain. Blackwood can see the slight flush starting up on the back of his neck.

“You will never take this off,” Blackwood whispers in his ear, winding two fingers into the chain and tugging so that it scrapes against Coward’s neck. “It is my mark on you, and only I may remove it, whenever _I_ so choose. _If_ I so choose.” Coward makes a low sound of wordless agreement, and when Blackwood releases him, he whirls around, cheeks flushed, and drops to his knees, swallowing his cock down eagerly before Blackwood can say anything else.

After using his mouth thoroughly, Blackwood comes down Coward’s throat, fingers clutching at the silver encircling his neck, the brand he has left there.

The next morning, when they address his court, Blackwood sees the eyes tracking Coward wherever he goes; Coward stands proudly, meeting each and every one of those gazes. The chain is vibrant at his throat.

Coward’s eyes, when he meets Blackwood’s, are more vibrant still.

*

After the chain, it’s a pair of thick leather bracelets that snap tight around Coward’s wrists; his wrists look delicate enough that it always surprises his opponents—who expect a foppish man with no skills to back up his position at Blackwood’s side—when Coward draws out his pistols smoothly and dispatches them with one well-placed bullet each. They always die with that look of open-mouthed surprise on their face, and Blackwood enjoys it above all else.

Coward’s wrists look more delicate still when enclosed in smooth leather stamped with Blackwood’s crest. Blackwood often catches him rubbing the thumb of his right hand over his left wrist, shivering slightly as he traces over the edges of Blackwood’s mark.

There is one small loop on each bracelet, through which Blackwood could string a chain and bind Coward’s hands up above his head if he wished. He finds, though, that they rarely need to use them. He pushes Coward down upon the bed and tells him calmly, “Leave your hands where they are,” and Coward does. He does not move them, even as his breathing quickens and his whole body flushes with desperation; he remains in place through the command of Blackwood’s voice _alone_ , and that is heady enough that Blackwood forgoes the chain and tests Coward’s resolve, again and again and again, and Coward never fails him.

Every night before they sleep, Blackwood removes the bracelets and sets them by his bedside, and every morning, before Coward leaves his room, he snaps them back into place around his wrists. Coward holds out his arms, and when each bracelet is back in its proper place, the slight tension in his furrowed brow eases; Blackwood always finishes by pulling lightly at Coward’s chain, the one he does not ever remove, to remind him of the meaning behind that which he wears. Coward gazes up at him through this morning ritual of theirs, and when it is finished, he sighs quietly like all has become right in his world.

It has not escaped Blackwood’s notice that he is turning Coward almost into some form of—consort; certainly others have noticed it.

Let them, though. This is _Blackwood’s_ world, now, and he will do as he sees fit. And if he sees fit to make it inescapably clear that what is _his_ cannot be touched by any other, that is what he will do.

*

The first and only time Blackwood overhears one of his lords say to another, in a voice full of sneering contempt, “ _Lord_ Coward—what an utter joke. The boy is a whore at best, paid in silver and jewels to roll over every night.”

Blackwood’s anger has never been the hot fury that clouds one’s judgment and forces one to rash actions. His anger comes over him in ice-cold clarity, a wave of freezing rage that numbs him to the tips of his very fingers. The man who had spoken goes white when he sees Blackwood there, and sees something in Blackwood’s expression that makes his hands shake uncontrollably. Blackwood can taste his fear in the air, thick and sharp and sweet. His companion edges away, wisely so.

Blackwood makes an example of that fool, has him beaten until he bleeds and stripped of his wealth and lands, leaves him beggared on the streets. He lets him live for one reason alone: Coward comes to him and says, “Henry. Your punishments must be proportionate to the crime committed, or all you will do is foment the seeds of rebellion in those you rule. He only spoke against me, and words do not wound the body.”

“Daniel, are you daring to teach _me_ how to rule my lands?” Blackwood asks dangerously, looming over Coward until their faces are so close as to almost be touching.

Coward simply smiles, fond and unafraid; damn him to the depths of hell. “They may call me a whore a thousand times, and I will not hear it,” he says quietly. “They are insignificant. I care not a whit what they might say about me, as long as _you_ know what I am.”

Yes, Blackwood knows what Coward is. “Mine,” he hisses in Coward’s ear as he shoves him up against the wall.

“ _Yes_ ,” Coward breathes, eyes going dark with lust, throat bared in submission; he will stand firm in his ideas and has talked Blackwood around to his point of view more than once, but his submission, when given, is true. Blackwood takes it, and it is like being crowned upon his throne once again, every time it happens.

No one will meet Coward’s eyes the next day, though he stares at each and every one of them with a smirk on his face, as if daring them to _try_.

Blackwood never hears another word spoken against him.

*

Coward stretches himself with oil-slick fingers, biting down upon his lower lip as Blackwood hooks his hands behind Coward’s knees and spreads his thighs farther apart. Coward, straddling Blackwood’s body on the bed, lets a stifled moan escape as he almost falls forward, thighs straining with tension.

Blackwood can see the marks he’s left all over Coward’s body, the permanent ones and the ones that are fleeting—the livid bites marking up his chest, the finger-shaped bruises left over his hips; the glint of silver around his throat, the leather bracelets circled around his wrists. The rings threaded through Coward’s taut nipples, silver to match his chain; Blackwood switches them out whenever he desires something different. Sometimes he makes Coward wear the ones with heavy jewels in them while they meet with the rest of the lords, and watches him clench one hand into a fist at his side at the slow torture of it under his clothes.

Coward slicks Blackwood’s cock with oil, and slowly lowers himself onto it, hands scrabbling at the sheets when Blackwood is finally fully inside him. Color blooms bright in his cheeks as he lifts himself up and sinks back down, and a shocked, wet gasp escapes him when Blackwood reaches up to tug at the rings on his chest.

“The way you have me now,” Coward says shakily, reaching up to trace over the edge of his chain, “there’s only one thing missing.” He curls his fingers at his chest, conspicuously bare; he smiles softly, brushing it off as a joke, but Blackwood can see a quick flash of—something in his eyes.

When Coward sinks down upon him again, breath hitching in his throat, Blackwood wraps a hand around his cock and starts stroking him brutally, efficiently. “England lies in my hands,” he says suddenly, and his voice sounds dark and hungry to his own ears. “Lay the _world_ at my feet, and then—” _And then we shall see_ are the words that go unsaid. His eyes upon Coward’s flexing fingers are clear enough.

Coward’s mouth falls half-open, red and wet and startled. He sobs out, “ _Henry_ ,” and comes all over himself, comes _everywhere_ , utterly wrecked and wanton, devious and brilliant and the only companion Blackwood could abide for the rest of his life.

\--

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End file.
